


Sleep Tight

by sneezingbees



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M, Gaslighting, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychological Drama, Stalking, Thriller, Undercover Vulpes, all the tags a healthy Vulpes fic needs!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23301010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneezingbees/pseuds/sneezingbees
Summary: Amber is a courier just trying to make it work in Freeside. Between recovering from her head injury and getting to know the surly bodyguard Craig Boone, she’s got plenty to keep her occupied. When a stranger moves in across the hall, she doesn’t think twice. Sure, Mark is polite, but a little too nice, a little too forgettable. Then again, she’s not exactly paying attention.He is.A story exploring the relationship between a female courier and Vulpes Inculta on one of his first undercover missions.
Relationships: Craig Boone/Female Courier, Female Courier/Vulpes Inculta
Comments: 31
Kudos: 110





	1. Monday

Amber had been working in North Vegas all day and she got back to her apartment in Freeside at eight thirty. The day had been hot, sticky and largely pointless but she’d enjoyed it anyway; she enjoyed being a courier. She enjoyed hotfooting it all over the vast Mojave network, delivering letters from soldiers to their sweethearts in little Podunk towns; handing over damp brown parcels of gramma’s best pound cake to stick-thin kids out on the sharecropping farms; being the middle man for a postcard which had travelled all the way from the Hub in NCR heartland out to the borderlands of Nelson. Sure, it was a little nervy sometimes what with the Legion and the Fiends and every other thing in desert having a mind to kill her, but you had to keep a positive attitude. After all, she had a great radio, a good pair of boots, and a snappy trigger finger. What else did a girl need?

Since it was summer, it was still light when she got back to the apartment. The sky was purple, the colour of lilac petals, and she came in through the Freeside gate to the salty smell of the hot food stands. She swung by Mick and Ralph’s to pick up some groceries and went to the liquor store opposite to buy a few cans of beer since it was cheaper there – plus they had a back room where they kept the beverages cool. Amber cracked one open and halved its contents as she wandered up Pearl Lane. Her apartment block was number 115; she was Apartment 3C. The landlord, a sweaty fella who owned another block on Cherrypie Road, was always hot on his rent but kept the place in relatively good nick. She hadn’t seen a bug or a mouse since she moved in.

“Evenin’, Stacey,” Amber said to the blonde kid sitting on the step. The girl lived on the fourth floor. Stacey’s dad was single dad and worked a lot of hours contracting for the NCR. It was no surprise to see Stacey sitting around by herself.

“Evenin’, Amber. Where’d you go today?”

“Round and about. Bit of North Vegas,” Amber sipped the can.

“Wow! See any action?”

“No; saw some raiders on the horizon though. They didn’t look too friendly,” Amber said. “What about you? Did you have any classes?”

The Followers had been trying to start up once a week classes in Freeside to help increase literacy. They’d all gotten letters in their mailboxes about it.

“Nah, that’s tomorrow. Dunno if I’ll go anyway. I got stuff to do.”

“What stuff do you have to do?” Amber raised an eyebrow.

“I got stuff!” Stacey said and Amber left her to it.

She finished the can by the time she got to the third floor and had to put her bags down to unlock the door. The rest of the evening was fairly humdrum: she turned the radio up and danced around the apartment as she cooked peppers, chillies and tomatoes on the hot plate. The smell filled the flat and she ate the food out on the balcony with thick yellow cornbread she’d bought for about five caps from a roadside stall. The radio turned to the news hour as she leafed through the mail; the host talked about some kind of fracas in the area around Nelson. Amber made a note to try and avoid jobs in that neck of the woods as she read a letter her ma had sent her from Goodsprings. Ma talked about the chickens, the alfalfa and the nice robot Victor who’d dug the soil for her maize plants since her back was bad. Then there was a Follower pamphlet about different methods of contraception (a bit of a kick in the teeth considering Amber’s empty love life!) and an NCR recruitment pamphlet looking for experienced couriers.

Amber examined the NCR pamphlet with some interest, lighting up a cigarette which bloomed brightly against the blue night sky. It was ten p.m. and getting dark.

_Couriers with experience sorely needed! Generous pay and benefits scheme..._

She turned over the leaflet, scanning for requirements. _Three years’ experience minimum, five years plus preferable. Confident across all NCR territory. In excellent physical condition._

Now that last one could be an issue. Amber felt her forehead where the bullet had near-scrambled her brain not too long ago. Last winter. She’d been going back to see her ma for the holidays. The scar was still lumpy at the top left of her forehead; not exactly ‘excellent physical condition’. She didn’t want to lie to the recruiters.

Maybe she’d write to her ma and see what she thought about it. If the pay was better than the Mojave Express, applying might be worth a shot.

Amber got halfway through writing the letter before feeling tired. She left it on the bedside table before getting changed into her nightie, brushing her teeth, and slipping into her bed. She left the door to the balcony ajar but with a chain across it to let in a gasp of air. It was going to be a hot night.

*** 

For most of the night, Amber’s apartment was silent. A mosquito whined in and out through a gap the window. A slight breeze shook the bug curtains out around eleven, stirring them like a ghost went passing through. A tenant came in late and stomped his way up to the fourth floor, rattling Amber’s crockery on the kitchen shelf.

At midnight, there was movement. Barely perceptible; if you had lain on the bed with your eyes open and restless you might have thought it a scorpion, scuttling across the floor. Or perhaps a scorpion was too heavy: something finer, a spider. If you had looked under the bed, you would have seen it was the brush of a pale hand, flexing in the gloom.

The man under Amber’s bed opened his eyes; a snap. He let out a shallow breath and shifted his body. Paused.

Amber had been walking all day: her snores were full and enthusiastic.

He shifted a little more; half his body out now.

Nothing.

The man slipped out from under the bed and crouched at the courier’s bedside, cloth in hand. He delicately placed it over Amber’s mouth and nose with one cool hand on her warm forehead. She shifted, moaned – then fell still. The snores subsided.

The chemicals on the cloth weren’t necessary, considering how heavily the courier slept but the man had been trained to always err on the side of caution, the side of safety. In the half-light of the room, the courier’s brow was peaceful. The scar was dark and purplish, like a night-blooming flower. The man gently smoothed her curls off her forehead and straightened up. He had work to do.

The man was a spy for Caesar’s Legion. This was what led him to Amber’s room on the cold side of midnight; a search for secrets and anything which might be of use to the Legion. He’d been working on Amber for two weeks now.

He looked through her opened letters and read the dull news from her mother. He saw the NCR pamphlet set on the side next to a letter Amber had half-written. He scanned it quickly: she was thinking about becoming a courier for the NCR. Hmm, that would never do. He would have to avert that course of action. Then a reference to getting shot by Benny the Chairman (although Amber did not know the name of her would-be murderer). Amber again mentioned the platinum chip in this letter home: _I wish I’d never heard of the platinum chip and I’d never taken that stupid job! The NCR courier pay is apparently going to be at a premium this summer..._

It sounded like Amber was going to take the job, the spy realised. He rubbed his jaw. This complicated things. He was going to need to act quickly; he himself wasn’t sure what the platinum chip was but he had been told to prevent it and any information concerning it falling into the wrong hands. This would be a delicate game. He would need to play his hand very well.

He turned over drawers and looked through her cupboards for the next half an hour, but there was nothing else of interest. There was a pot of suncream on the side from the Followers: a chalky white paste. At one a.m., he lay on the bed next to Amber and traced a fingertip down her side. He matched his breathing with hers and planned out his campaign.

At one thirty, he picked the lock on Amber’s door and left the apartment. The building was silent and he was a shadow: nobody saw him come or go. He crossed the hallway and unlocked the door to apartment 3B. This time he did not have to pick a lock, but used a key; this was his own room and here was his own bed. He lay very still and looked at the water-stain on the ceiling, listening to the whirr of the fan at his bedside.

Then he got the radio from the drawer and called the news in. The Frumentarius on the other end of the line was curtly professional.

“You are to continue to intercept any association with the NCR,” the Frumentarius said, “By any means necessary.”

“Yes, sir. Any suggestions?”

There was a pause and the man at the other end of the line sighed. “Use your imagination.”

The radio link was severed and static roared in Vulpes Inculta’s ears. He put the radio away and lay on his back, stretching into a star shape.

He had a few ideas.


	2. Tuesday

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t another beautiful day in the Mo-ja-ve region!” the radio crooned as the sun rose over Freeside. “We’re looking at a hundred degrees in the shade folks, so pack your sunglasses and your hats if you’re out there – it’ll be a doozy!”

Amber stretched, her feet propped on the balcony rail which was not yet electric-hot. It was a little after dawn and she was as stiff as a rake but she wanted to get out to McCarran to enquire about the courier position before the day got too stifling. It was just her bad luck she’d woken up feeling exhausted and crabby, her eyes feeling like they had bricks attached to them. She must not have slept well.

There was a headache pulsing somewhere behind her eyes which she hoped the walk would clear. She drank a little warm beer from last night and scraped her bowl for leftover corn grits. The breakfast of champions.

It was six when she dressed and headed out for the day, wide-brimmed hat balanced on her gingery hair. She was just locking the door for her apartment when her neighbour came out of the flat opposite. Not Stacey, but the man who lived in 3B. Mark.

“Mornin’,” Mark said cheerfully. “You’re up early. Beating the sun, huh?”

“I meant to be up earlier,” Amber said regretfully. “I slept in. My limbs are about as heavy as rocks this morning.”

“Have a wild one last night?” Mark said amicably as he shouldered his pack. He was wearing a faded workman’s vest, jeans, and a black cowboy hat. They headed down the stairs together.

“Oh, no,” she laughed. “I guess I just pushed myself too hard yesterday. Went out to North Vegas to deliver a package.”

“Gosh,” Mark said as they left the flat. “North Vegas? You ain’t worried about them Fiends then?” he sounded nervous even as he said it.

Amber shrugged. “Girl’s gotta work. Rather do it on my feet than on my back,” she said.

Mark blushed at Amber’s allusion. He was a funny guy who tended on the side of bashful. “Well – uh, yeah, guess that’s reasonable.”

“I’m actually heading out about a new job today,” Amber said as they headed down Pearl Lane, going towards the East gate. “Camp McCarran want couriers. They’re paying extra.”

“NCR?” Mark said. “Ooh, gee. They might send you somewhere dangerous, y’know. You won’t get a lot of choice.”

Amber laughed. “I don’t get a lot of choice now. Where are you heading today?”

“The underpass,” he said. “My mom wants the windows fixin’. There’s a dust storm rolling in from the south and she wants to get them nailed and wrapped before it comes.”

Mark was ever-devoted to his mom: this wasn’t the first time he’d wasted half a working day schlepping out to her house in the underpass. It was cute, but Christ. You had to cut the apron strings at some point. Mark was a handyman but always worked pro bono for family and friends. Probably would end up fixing half the settlement whilst he was at it. Dope.

“Oh yeah. Heard ‘bout that on the radio,” she said. “When’s it hitting?”

“Maybe next week. I got a load of work on shutting up houses,” Mark said. “Speaking of, the landlord wants me to check the windows on all the rooms. I’ll try and give you warnin’,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to make ya jump.”

The idea of gentle, bashful Mark scaring her was laughable, but his concern was sweet. She patted him on the arm and said she hoped he had a nice day with his mom. Then they parted ways and she headed on to Camp McCarran.

***

The NCR recruitment officer rejected her as soon as he saw the pink wound glowing like raspberry pulp at the crux of her hairline. Amber had tried telling him that she was a seasoned courier who had worked the job since she was fifteen but he wasn’t interested – he said their premium salary was for their premium workers. However, he did bring her around into a back office and say that there would always be a little something off the books for people who knew the Mojave and could be trusted.

In this back office there was another man with a red beret, shifting from foot to foot. He wore sunglasses indoors.

“I’m trusty,” Amber said. “What do you want me to deliver?”

“Well, we’re actually tracking a package right now which ended up Goodsprings,” the officer said. “You ever hear of the place?”

“Well, yeah,” Amber said. “My ma’s from there.”

“There was a delivery meant to arrive there last summer,” he said. “It was important, we hear. But we got nothing on it. Would you be able to talk to the other couriers at the Mojave Express? See if anyone heard anything?”

“Sure,” Amber said. “How much do I get?”

“Depends on how much you find out. You get a little, maybe two hundred. You get a lot, maybe a thousand. Maybe a bit more.”

“Gee,” Amber whistled. “I’ll keep my ears out.”

“Thanks,” the officer said. “You need to head out there, you can take Boone here. He’s doing a bit of informal protection at the moment.”

The man with the red beret lit a cigarette, but didn’t say anything. Amber wondered what he looked like under those sunglasses.

Maybe he had an ugly scar he was hiding.

“I might take you up on that,” she said slowly. She held her hand out to the bodyguard. “My name’s Amber, by the way.”

Boone looked up. He switched his cigarette over to his left hand and held out his right.

“Craig.”

Amber could feel his calluses pressing into her palm; coarse around his trigger finger. She smiled.

***

Vulpes Inculta had a bit of a dull day after his conversation with Amber ended. He did go out to the underpass, but not for anyone’s mother. He went looking for a particular dark green plant which had leaves bristling with tiny black hairs. Its flowers were like the open mouths of baby birds, pink and wet in the middle. He wore leather gloves and cut a selection which he stored carefully in a burlap bag, before packing it into his satchel. The sun was hazy and orange at his back as he headed towards Freeside. He wanted to get to the flat before Amber returned.

***

Amber had a good evening. She had a wash with a facecloth and a frothy pot of the wet soap her ma made from fat and sweet herbs. She did her ruddy hair too, and dried off in the warm dusky sun on the balcony. She ate a little more porridge and listened to the radio, before brushing her teeth and going to bed early. She didn’t want to feel so sleepy the next morning; she wanted to get to the Mojave Express early to catch the couriers coming in from the night runs. They might know something about a delivery in Goodsprings.

She dreamed fitfully; something about the face of the bodyguard Boone and her neighbour Mark. There was a gecko and something confusing to do with a delivery, a mistake.

When Amber woke up and looked in the little looking glass mirror her ma had bought her for her sixteenth birthday, her scream woke Vulpes Inculta in his apartment across the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to ao3 not counting hits from non-users, if you enjoy this please let me know by dropping a comment or a kudos :)


	3. Wednesday

Amber touched her face with her fingertips, peering into the looking glass. Overnight, the skin on her face had broken out in raw, cracked red patches. The rash began in the hollow of her throat and stretched all the way up to her hairline, interrupted by occasional patches of clear skin. There was a huge red swipe on her cheek, one on her temple, another along the right side of her jaw. They stung ever so faintly. When she moved her face in a smile or raised her eyebrows, they stung a little more.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she whispered. How much time had she spent out in the sun yesterday?

She checked the rest of her body, but it didn’t seem to be anywhere but on her face and neck. Well, that made sense: she hadn’t wandered down to Camp McCarran stark naked.

There was a loud knock at the door. _Bam-bam-bam_.

“Ahhh,” Amber whispered, tearing her eyes away from the mirror. Exactly what she needed.

“Amber? Are you ok?”

It was her neighbour, Mark. Christ, did he always have to be such a do-gooder?

“Y-yeah,” Amber hesitated as she went to draw the bolt across. But whatever, it was just Mark. She drew the bolt and opened the door a crack.

“Hey,” she said from behind the frame.

Mark was in a white vest and grey boxers. His brown hair stuck up at odd angles and he was rubbing a grey eye.

“Did I wake you?” Amber said. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, you did,” he laughed. “Why’d you scream? You step on a bug or somethin’?”

“Uh-”

“Why you hidin’ behind the door?”

“Ah-” Amber opened the door properly and unhappily. Mark’s eyebrows shot up when he saw her face.

“Oh, Amber. You fall asleep in the sun?”

“ _No_ ,” she said. “I don’t know what happened. I must have – I don’t know. I guess I stayed out too long.”

“You got any aloe vera?”

“No,” Amber said ruefully. “I’ll have to scrounge some later. But I’ve got _stuff_ to do today.”

“It’s alright, I’ve got some I never use,” Mark said. “You can have it.”

“Mark...” Amber blushed. “That’s so generous, let me give you something for it –”

“Forget it,” he waved his hand. “Like I said, I never use it.”

Amber watched him head back across the hall to his apartment. His bare feet didn’t make a sound on the floor, but Amber was more preoccupied with his back. She’d never noticed how muscular he was: lean muscle which shifted under his skin. She noticed he had white scars peppering his shoulders which disappeared under his vest. Long pale lines.

***

Amber’s face felt a little better after applying some of the cooling aloe vera ointment, but it remained stiff and stung when she smiled. She wrapped a scarf around her face and headed out to the Mojave Express, but by the time she got there the couriers coming in from the night had mostly petered out. She spoke to a former Khan courier who said that a courier named Spencer ran a lot of deliveries in that area and might know something. He was going to be getting in at the end of the week so she should try then.

She picked up a delivery for Red Rock which would take her a couple days to make; mostly she wanted to get out of the city and give her legs a good stretch. She went home to pick up some supplies, packing her soap and the ointment and some jerky and tack and other bits. Amber wrote half a letter to her ma asking if she’d heard of the courier Spencer Whitt and figured she’d finish it off on her return so she could talk about the Red Rock delivery and have a bit more news. She left it out on the desk.

Amber made sure she loaded up on sun-cream before she left.

***

_Dear Ma._

Vulpes Inculta lay on Amber’s bed, reading Amber’s letter and drinking a sunset sarsaparilla. He had a pillow propped up behind his head and the window was open; the breeze was blowing the bug curtains in a wave.

_Went to McCarran Camp to apply for that courier job – they didn’t want me because I was too busted. Boo hoo! Makes sense, I suppose – who’d want a girl who’d keel over halfway to Nelson and end up getting picked up by Legion scouts? But it’s not all bad news: they offered me another job. Something to do with Goodsprings, if you can believe it. They want to know a little about courier networks in the town._

Vulpes scratched the back of his neck where he had a bug bite. This sounded interesting.

_Figured I’d get you to do my dirty work, Ma! They’re looking for a guy called Spencer Whitt, who works in the area apparently. Short and bony, sandy brown hair and blue eyes. He’s got a lisp and an accent from the area. Ever heard of him? I couldn’t think of a Spencer like that, but for all I know he delivers your mail... He’s meant to be coming into the depot at the end of the week, so I’ll try and catch him then but if you think of anything – let me know._

_How’s the corn? How’s that sweetheart Victor? And little Belle? Write me ASAP!_

_P.S. I met a real cutie at McCarran today. If I end up coming up on the job, he’ll assist me as my bodyguard. Aren’t the NCR serious? Not like those cheapskates at Mojave Express! If I can get this job done well, maybe they’ll offer me a contract... wouldn’t that be nice?_

Well, there was lots to think about there. Vulpes put his sarsaparilla down on a coaster and read the letter through once more. Amber certainly was obliging in the amount of information she released to the world. It was kind of sweet, but a little surprising considering how compromised the courier networks were with Legion couriers. Maybe she was going to give this to a trusted friend to deliver.

He placed the letter on the bed next to him and looked at the pink dusky sky.

Spencer would certainly be worth a chat. Vulpes Inculta thought he might stake out the main road and alert Frumentarii in the area to keep their eyes out. It’d be good to get to him first; if Amber was with the NCR, Spencer may well meet a sticky end before the bear got its grubby little paws all over that information.

He read the end of the letter again.

_Met a real cutie at Camp McCarran._

Who might that be? Mark never warranted a mention in these letters, apart from when he’d first moved in a couple weeks back: _new tenant across the hall called Mark. Seems nice_. That had never been an issue previously: the whole point of this operation was to fly below the radar. Now it ignited a flicker of irritation – why did Amber never write about him? Not even that he was kind enough to give her the aloe vera gel? (Which – not that she knew – cost him fifteen caps).

Who was the bodyguard from McCarran?

These thoughts were so mixed up in his mind that Vulpes did not exercise the usual precaution when leaving the flat. He used the spare key he had had made from Amber’s own to lock the door behind him and slipped across the corridor to 3B to seal himself in his room. Amber and McCarran were still on his mind when there was a knock on the door. A polite little rap.

Vulpes Inculta opened it and looked down at a little blonde girl. She was alone in the hallway. She was wearing a white blouse and a wide grin. She didn’t have all her teeth; one of the front ones was missing leaving a pink gummy stump. Her hands were on her hips.

“I saw you!” she said.

Vulpes grabbed her by her filthy shirt collar and pulled her inside.


	4. Wednesday (evening)

Stacey’s grin was so wide it dimpled her little profligate cheeks. They were tanned from the sun but still pale enough that they showed pink blush from the heat of the evening. Vulpes’ shirt stuck to his back and when he let the girl’s collar go his hand was damp. He wiped it on his trouser leg.

“You saw _what_ , exactly?”

“I saw ya,” she grinned. “In Amber’s room. What were you up to?” 

“That’s none of your concern.” 

“Stealing?”

“Nope. I was fitting the window covers for the dust storm.”

“Liar. We ain’t got the kit in yet,” Stacey said. “I was helping Petey get them from the market. Ours are all holey.” Petey was the landlord; an older man who often kept an eye on Stacey. Although not a close one, apparently.

She looked about his room; a barren bachelor’s apartment with a bed, a desk and a can of cola sweating on the bedside table. Vulpes sympathised with the can.

He said, “Just because Petey hasn’t got the covers in yet doesn’t mean I haven’t got work to do. You need to measure up the window frames if you’re gonna fit the right amount of cover.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grinned; that horrible missing-tooth smirk. What a revolting child. “Were you looking through her pantie drawer?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Then why haven’t you thrown me out yet?” Stacey’s smile widened.

Vulpes slid the bolt across the door and sat down on the bed. He could kill her, perhaps, but Stacey was well-liked around the place and it was a sloppy thing to do. A Frumentarius was supposed to maintain the façade of normalcy in all his operations: a missing child would always draw questions. Even in a place like Freeside.

“Say you saw me. So what?”

“So I’ll tell on ya,” she picked up the sweaty can from his bedside table and, hearing no protest from him, cracked the tab. It hissed as it released the air and she took a gulp. “Mm! Or you could make it worth my while.”

“Isn’t that a fancy phrase for a little girl?”

“Uh-huh! Heard Dixon saying it. _You could make it worth my while, kiddo_ ,” Stacey took another glug. “So? What you worth?”

 _Isn’t that the question? What is your silence worth?_ Vulpes Inculta pondered for a moment as Stacey drained the can. Kids were cheap: as long as she wasn’t greedy this would be fine. Buy her a case of Nuka Cola and an old Grognak. He relaxed a little as the situation slipped back under his control.

“What would you like?”

Stacey crunched the empty can in a hand; she put it on the floor and stood on it so it turned into a flat disk. “Well, another one of them for starters! I want a can of Nuka Cola for ev’ry day of the week!”

“Sure.”

“And I want a Guns n’stuff magazine,” she said. “Make sure it’s one of the plasma issues.”

“Sure.”

“And I want liquor,” she said. “I want a bottle of liquor.”

Vulpes Inculta almost laughed: of course she did. Now what good was she going to get up to with that? She couldn’t have been older than ten, although the lack of nourishment meant Freeside kids grew up small. _A bottle of liquor_. If that was her interest, he was surprised she hadn’t stolen some already; the stuff was plentiful enough around the town.

 _You know that stuff will melt your brain_ , he could have said. Or maybe, _liquor makes your teeth go brown and your mouth will be even uglier than it is already_. Or even, _does Petey know you’re drinking liquor?_

Instead he said, “Sure.”

She stuck out her hand for him to shake, “Now you better be smooth about this, you don’t want to go spilling your own beans.”

“I’ll try not to disappoint.” He put his damp hand in hers and shook it in the way the profligates liked, firm and quick. Stacey looked very pleased with herself: her cheeks were dimpling again. He drew the bolt back to let her out the room and she said something about expecting the first instalment “ay-es-apey”, whatever that meant. He was hardly listening and drew the bolt as soon as she left, sitting down on the bed with a sigh. He looked at the flat disk of the cola can she’d left on the floor and picked it up. Vulpes turned it over in his hand.

Not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so short, I feel like it hardly counts! I've already written the next bit which is longer and more exciting (as if that were possible!) so I'll update this again pretty soon.


	5. Friday

It was a couple days later when Vulpes Inculta picked up Spencer the courier on the outskirts of the sharecropping farms. Spencer was coming in after making a Primm delivery; he usually worked in that part of the desert since he had family in Novac. He was exhausted and had pink sunburn striping his pasty cheeks; his brown hat was dipped down low over his forehead. Nonetheless, the courier satchel picked him out as Mojave Express. Vulpes was obliged to the man for making it so easy for him.

At first he waylaid Spencer with a gambit about a lost dog. Vulpes came running up with a red face and a stricken expression, “Christ man, have you seen a yellow yappy thing? Bighorn dog, about yay big?”

Spencer had been immediately on his guard, of course. Hand ghosting towards where he must keep his weapon, thank you very much. “Haven’t seen no dogs.”

“My girlfriend’s gonna kill me. Left the gate open and it went tearing down the road, shit!” Vulpes ran his hand through his hair. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Hey, relax man,” Spencer said. “It’ll turn up.”

“A goddamn deathclaw coulda eaten Bouncer by now. Or a nightcrawler, or a mutie, or one of them Fiends coulda stuck it on a spit and spread it on toast. And I’ll be next if I don’t find that dog!” He paused suddenly. “Which way you walking? Could you keep an eye out?”

Spencer was a bit more relaxed now, unwound by Vulpes’ ‘poor me’ moron act. “I’m walking – uh – via the main road. Near the overpass.”

“I haven’t looked there yet. When you pass near the bridge, could you just keep your eyes out for anything yellow in the scrub? He loves chasing rabbits, not that the stupid mutt ever catches anything-”

Spencer nodded, already getting ready to move off when Vulpes reached into his pocket. “Wait! Could I show you a picture of him?”

“Sure, make it quick mind –”

Vulpes did as Spencer asked and made it nice and quick. He hit him with the butt of his own pistol, then emptied the bullets out onto the dirt. Once Spencer was subdued, he didn’t waste time dragging him off to the Frumentarii outpost which was about a mile west; instead he and Spencer took a quick little detour off road, going up the hill and behind a ridge into a dell. There were old rusted metal pipes sticking out of the ground here, but it wasn’t a well-visited area. They should be ok for a quick chat.

It didn’t take much to make Spencer amenable and pretty soon the courier had plenty to say. Which trade routes he took, what the courier traffic in Goodsprings was like, hazy details of deliveries from the summer passed. New parts for Victor, postcards from Forlorn Hope, seed catalogues ordered in special delivery from the Hub.

“Have you ever taken a delivery from the Strip?” Vulpes Inculta asked.

“The Strip to Goodsprings?” Spencer squinted. “Uh, that’s not really a common run –”

“So you would remember any such packages,” Vulpes didn’t phrase it as a question; he’d seen the flicker of recognition in Spencer’s blue eyes.

“Listen, man, you’d really be better off talking to someone from head office –”

Vulpes’ reaction to this was minimal; he simply shifted positions but there was something serpentine about that shift in his spine which set Spencer on edge. Now Vulpes brought out a little pair of pliers from his pocket as calmly as a man offering another a biscuit. He said;

“Listen, _man_. Do you hear anything at all?”

The wind went through the hills around them but other than that they only had the silence of the desert.

“N-no.”

“Do you hear head office?”

“No.”

“Well looks like they’re not answering my enquiries today,” the pliers were like a fish in his hand, silver and perfect. A minnow with a delicate gaping mouth. “You’ll have to step up, Spencer. Or else you’ll be answering my second question.”

Spencer set his jaw, “That being?”

The minnow opened its mouth with a gentle creak. “How many teeth are the Mojave Express worth?”

Spencer paled a little more and the sweat dappling his forehead cooled in the evening breeze. The sky above them was a beautiful shade of purple like a foxglove and in the distance Vulpes Inculta thought he heard a dog barking.

_Ironic._

Spencer said, “Ok. I know the delivery you’re talking about.”

The minnow closed its mouth.

“I didn’t make it, but I know the guy who did. I think his real name is Andy but we all called him Mole. ‘Cause he has these little round glasses and is always squinting behind ‘em plus he makes a lot of overnight deliveries. He’s half-tribal from the north.”

Vulpes didn’t say anything.

“Anyway, it was his slot but he didn’t make it. He got to Primm but something happened on the road before he reached Goodsprings. I dunno what, but if you want to know more I’d look in the Mojave Express ledger in Primm. That’s where he made his last connect.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Haven’t seen him since last summer, but I dunno. He was always sending money back to his family, maybe he headed up there. Broken Hills, I think.”

“Where would I find the ledger in Primm?”

“In the Mojave Express main office. Just off New Street, an old lady named Dot runs it but she knocks off at five every night so if you went after then nobody would be there. You could probably pick the lock.”

“I probably could,” Vulpes Inculta said. He put the pliers back into his pocket and patted Spencer on the cheek. “Thank you, Spencer. You’ve been a great help.”

Spencer shivered as Vulpes shifted his back, that serpentine slither again. He had the same dead-eyed look as a rattle-snake and Spencer’s realisation of this made him feel for all the world a vole. A mouse.

“Anything else?” Spencer said weakly.

The snake said, “Oh, no. I think that will do.”


	6. Sunday

“Gooooooooooood evening folks, hope you’re having a relaxing and _tranquil_ Sunday night under this full moon of ours... if you haven’t seen it yet, do look out your windows: it is a doozy. Ah. Views like that make living in this desert of ours almost worthwhile, eh? Whether you’re out on the road or kicking back at home with a cold one, I’ll be keeping you company all night with the latest tunes. We’ve got a hot new single out of Denver by an all-ghoul outfit called _The Gomorrah Greens._ That’s _the Gomorrah Greens_ with their new song, ‘Two Hundred Years of Loving You’, up next after the news.”

Amber lingered in the shop in West Side as the news came on. She’d stopped by Klamath Bob’s to buy a few cans to drink on the way home, and there was a radio sitting on the shop shelf tuned to Radio New Vegas.

The jockey cleared his throat after the jingle finished to cue up the news;

“Ahem, ahem, excuse me folks... anyone else all bunged up with all the dust ‘round the Mojave? The weather fellas at the Helios reckon the storm’ll break on Wednesday so look out for that...” the jockey went on to list tidbits of information from all around the Mojave. Another assault by the Legion on Nelson, NCR raising tax on imported food to try and get more people to eat their crappy sharecropped corn, a plea for a lost Bighorner by the name of Bluey who had gone AWOL near Novac. Then;

“The Mojave Express are still appealing for information about the disappearance of a couple couriers on their routes, a Spencer Whitt and an Andy Wethers... if you boys are listening, your employers are keen for you to give ‘em a call and hand in your packages-”

“Huh,” Amber said. The radio had been playing the announcement all week. “Wonder where they are.”

“Friends of yours?” Klamath Bob glanced up at her from underneath his faded baseball cap.

“Uh, not exactly,” Amber said, adjusting the strap on her mailbag. “We’re all in the same outfit, you know...”

“Sure,” Klamath spoke around a cigarette. “Not nice when people are killing couriers. I’d feel kinda funky if the radioman started talking about shopkeepers going missin’.”

“He didn’t say they got killed, did he?”

“Well. Whaddaya think happened to ‘em? Didn’t know you guys gave vacation.”

“We don’t make a habit of it. They’ve probably taken off with a package,” Amber dug into her back pocket for the wad of notes. “Hey, can you exchange these dollars into caps for me?”

Klamath Bob nodded, wordlessly stubbing his cigarette in a smouldering ash tray. He got out a pad of paper and a pencil to do the workings out, then turned up the radio. The ghoul band was playing their new song, which started with a rough jangle on the guitar. The lead singer had voice like gravel as he sang, 

_My little darlin’ I been waiting up for you,_

_All two-hundred years I been feelin’ blue..._

Amber counted the dirty caps twice, then scooped them off the counter and headed off into the night. The song followed her out the door.

*

The Red Rock job had gone well, all things considered: the weather had been good, the drop had gone without a hitch, and she hadn’t been caught out by Legion or Fiend or anything activity on her way. She’d delivered some kind of medicine from the Followers of the Apocalypse; she wasn’t sure what, except that the parcel had their logo on it and a plea not to intercept Follower mail. A Khan in a black leather vest had met her at a shack they manned at the head of Red Rock Valley. That was the Khan way; they didn’t like to let outsiders into their territory so she always left deliveries with whichever schmuck they had manning the post. It was no skin off her nose: made the delivery much shorter.

The guy they had manning the place was a teenager; he had eyebrows studded with metal and sunburn peeling off the tops of his ears. He also had a pack of cigarettes, not just a pouch of rolling tobacco but an actual brand: _Reno’s Finest_. He offered her one.

“Well, aren’t you a sweetie?” Amber said. She sat down in the chair opposite and lit it with the match he handed her.

“So, what kind of places you been?” the Khan asked.

“Oh, all over,” she blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Hey, this stuff is nice.”

“Come on, what’s the furthest you been?”

“Ooh...” Amber paused. “I’ve been on the Strip, of course. Only once though. I’ve gone to Novac, Freeside, Westside, North Vegas, Nipton... usual routes really. Why, you want to get into it?”

The Khan lowered his voice, “I’m bored shitless out here. What kind of money do you make?”

“The money is crap,” she tapped her cigarette in his ashtray. “I’m trying to get into a... different courier programme. An elite type. The pay there’ll be better, but you’ve gotta have years of prior experience first.” She thought it wise not to mention that the programme was with the dreaded NCR.

“Uh huh.”

She looked a little closer at the boy, who still had acne and that teenage doughiness to his face. “It’s dangerous work, you know. There’s easier ways of earning.”

The Khan’s eyes flickered up. “You talking about them couriers that went missing? Heard it on the radio.”

“It’s not unusual,” she said.

“Uh huh. There was that one in Goodsprings last summer,” he said. “Shot in the head. My brother told me about it.”

Amber nodded carefully, “What did he say?”

“Just... shot in the head over some delivery and robbed blind. My brother was there.”

“What do you mean?”

“My brother was there. When they shot the guy.”

“What? Who’s your brother?”

“Jessup. He works protection on caravans now. Why, you heard of him? Think he did courier protection once.”

“Ironic.”

“Hah. I guess. Anyway, where you from? I’m trying to place your accent.”

Amber rose as she came to the ashes of her cigarette, stubbing it in the ashtray. She noticed now that it was a souvenir ashtray from Hoover Dam; _Hoover Dam: You’ll be amazed!_ “I’m from Goodsprings.”

The Khan leaned forward, “Oh yeah? You know the guy that was shot?”

The embers from her cigarette glowed in the enamelled waterfalls, little curls of smoke wavering. “Only in passing.” She shouldered her pack and put her hat back on, “Real nice guy.”

The Khan grabbed the door for her and said she could have the pack of cigarettes. There was a guilty look on his soft face, but she smiled brightly as she headed out the door. She thought to herself, _Jessup. Jessup the Khan doing protection._

_Let’s see how the NCR like that._

*

And like it they did.

Or at least, one of them did. Kinda.

Before she went through Westside, she’d dropped by Camp McCarran and asked to speak to the officer who’d told her to keep an ear out for news of the platinum chip. He wasn’t in, but she managed to speak to Craig Boone in the red beret. He was sipping on a cup of black coffee when she told him what she’d found out; he’d listened impassively, not interrupting. Then when she finished the story he’d said;

“Great Khans. Of course.”

Then he told her to come back first thing tomorrow to see if the NCR head honchos were interested in her tip.

So she was in a good mood when she beat up the road to her flat at eleven. Dixon was out flogging his usual garbage, there were some food stalls selling hot meat wraps, and the moon overhead was full and bright. She was gonna get in, drink her cans, slam on the radio and fry off the cheap meat she’d bought from Klamath Bob. Dance around to the smooth music hour at midnight. Then she had a pack of cigarettes and she could smoke as many as she wanted.

She bumped into Mark in the corridor, crouching down with a bobby pin in his hand.

“Mark! How are ya?”

“Locked myself out of my flat,” he muttered, straightening up.

“Idiot!” Amber laughed at him, “How long have you been standing out here?”

“Uh, only like half an hour,” he was going red. “I was waiting to catch Stacey to see if she’d give me a hand. She seems like you could pick a lock, you know?”

“Hell, I can pick a lock!” Amber said. “Well, most locks anyway. But I gotta eat first.” She put her shopping down to get her key out, bashing open the door to her flat with a hip. “You can help me make dinner then we’ll pick your lock. Sound good?”

“Uh –”

“Sure does!” Amber said and went into the flat. As she put her bags of shopping down, she heard Mark come in too, closing the door behind him.


	7. Sunday (evening) + Monday (morning)

Vulpes watched as Amber fiddled around with the old radio on the kitchen shelf, which grumbled static for a few moments before bursting into life. It was Radio New Vegas, that independent radio station which the Frumentarii had been trying to infect for a while with anti-NCR propaganda. It was a good target, since emotions towards the desert’s occupiers ran hot amongst the Mojave’s citizens. Vulpes had even called in himself once during their talk hour, pinching his nose and pretending to be from Primm: “It’s a got-dang disgrace what the NCR done to our glorious litt’l town!”

No talk hour now though: it was quarter to midnight and the radio was slipping into its lazy music sessions, some disk jockey no doubt sipping a sleepy beer as he shifted dull tracks over the record player. It was a group from Reno playing currently, a tired song about baby blues.

_I’m holdin’ and cryin’ and lovin’ and missin’..._

“God, give us something to dance to!” Amber muttered as she banged out her groceries on the counter. Peppers, meat, thick slices of cactus. She put the hotplate on and began chopping peppers up into yellow slices; then hacked away at a cut of dark meat. Gecko, perhaps.

“Is there – anything I can do?” Vulpes said hesitantly.

“You can find us a song on the radio,” Amber said. “I hate this mopey stuff. You want a beer?”

“Sure.”

She handed him a beer can going sweaty in the warm evening; for a moment their fingers touched: not the tips, but the whole of them. Her hand was lovely, dry and rough and cool. She didn’t seem to think anything of it but he watched her putting bacon fat in the pan, throwing the meat and peppers and chillies in, tipping her head back and drinking that pale amber swill which was barely colder than the room. Her lovely hair flashed like copper. He drank some, and fiddled with the radio. They found mostly homespun stations; folk out of Westside and North Vegas and sharecropper nobodies broadcasting their collections. There was a nice one called Tough Mutha coming out of nowhere in the desert, playing guitar jingles.

_Hark the voice, hark the voice -!  
Of Jesus calling, Jesus calling!_

“Ooh, I love the chorus on this one!” Amber shook the pan across the hotplate and the oil spat, peppers slipping and sizzling. “Reminds me of my mom!” She twisted a little in half a dance across the floorboards, humming and singing words in wrong spots. Tipsy, not drunk, and she tried to get him to dance at one point with those nice cool hands.

“Come on! Don’t be a stick in the mud!”

“I ain’t a dancer –”

But then he thought Mark would let her, so Vulpes did; he let her make his arms twirl her above her head and afterwards let her feed him with the hot food and later still let her offer him another beer (which he drank). She was getting sleepy, probably too sleepy to pick the lock to his apartment, but she was happy. Happy enough to talk.

“You caught me in a _good_ mood, Mark. It’s a good day.”

“Oh yeah?” he smiled. They were out on her balcony, looking down over Freeside whilst she smoked a harsh cigarette and tapped the ash into an empty beer can. Lights moved in the street below them; little fires in metal barrels, the dim shine of the North Star, and way out on the Vegas horizon there was the gentle humming glow of neon.

“Yeah. New job, maybe. With a handsome man,” she grinned.

“Uh huh. Not with the Express anymore?”

“Well, I am. But you know me,” Amber blew some smoke up at the stars. “I’m a freelancer! The NCR might be gonna hire me on to do a little work.”

“Oh yeah? What sorta work?”

“I dunno. It’s funny,” she said softly. “Stuff to do with last summer – when I was shot – they’re interested in the guy who did it. Guess he did some other stuff too. But I might get some justice out of it.”

“What sorta justice?” Vulpes looked at her curiously: curious as both Mark and himself as to what kind of woman she was. “What would you do?”

She didn’t meet his gaze; looking down at the street below. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. Maybe maybe maybe.”

“What kinda work are they gonna have you do?”

But she wasn’t paying attention now; she’d passed through the tipsy stage of drunk into the sleepy. Vulpes watched as the courier leaned back in the chair, drawing a rough blanket off the railing to wrap around her shoulders. She sipped her can and mumbled something; her eyes began to shutter. After a bit, her hand went slack. Vulpes sighed. That was about as much as he was going to get out of her, it seemed.

 _What to do?_ He could wake her, try and get her to talk some more and possibly piss her off. He could go back to his apartment, get his kit and put her to sleep, then go through her things and see what he could find. Or he could just pack it all in and take her out into the desert where he took Spencer and Andy and get to the bottom of things once and for all.

Or he could carry on with the original plan.

 _Original plan_. He was at heart a cautious man: no point in rushing things. Not when two couriers had already disappeared this week, not when Amber clearly knew something she wasn’t letting him in on. Not yet, anyway.

Besides, it was a nice night: he had food in his belly and the air was warm. He let her sleep beside him as he thought about what to do.

*

Next morning, Amber headed back to McCarran and Vulpes went to the shadowy ruins of broken down factories in east Freeside. He gathered what he needed carefully, storing them in a small pouch, and let himself into Amber’s room whilst she was out. He was careful and wore gloves, washing his hands and disposing of the pouch afterwards. It would take a few days, maybe a week, but he was patient. Careful, cautious, patient. The marks of a good Frumentarius.

*

“What happened to your _face_?” the NCR recruitment officer said.

“Well, didn’t your mom raise a charmer,” Amber muttered, rubbing her red cheek self-consciously. Her skin problems had come back worse since she’d woken up and her face was itchy with the rash. She felt a little worse for wear all over and wondered whether the gecko she’d eaten last night with Mark had gone off.

“You oughta wash your pillow,” the officer said.

“Thank you, I’ve thought of that,” Amber scowled. “Can we get back to business? Or are you planning on opening up a beauty salon back here?”

The recruitment officer raised any eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. The bodyguard Craig sat behind him, smoking a cigarette and eating sunflower seeds. He hadn’t spoken during the meeting.

The recruitment officer leaned forward, “Listen, courier. I’ll pay you a fifty caps for the tip.”

“What happened to the hundred cap minimum?”

“Eh –” the officer waved a hand. “It’s not top quality info. You know there’s a guy out there in the desert who might be involved –”

“Who _shot_ a courier-!”

“Big whoop. You heard the radio the other day? Couriers get shot all the time. That’s what we pay you premiums for.”

Amber touched the scar on her forehead, “Some premium.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway. Since I’m feeling generous, I’ll strike a deal with you. You go out to the desert and find this Jessup, get a little more information on the package – then it’s worth our while. Say, worth five hundred. Four.”

“Five!”

“Fine, five,” the officer waved his hand. “You can take Boone for a few days. He’ll look after you.”

 _I’ll bet_ , Amber thought, her eyes flickering up to the bodyguard.

Craig stubbed the stump of his cigarette in an ash tray. He said, “I’ve had dealings with the Khans before. I know a couple places we can start.”

“Atta boy,” the recruitment officer said.

Craig ignored him, looking at Amber; “I’ll need a couple days to get gear together if we’re going out into the desert. Give me your address and I’ll call on you,” his eyes were unreadable behind the sunglasses. “Or give me a place and we’ll meet.”

“Address is fine!” Amber told him where she lived happily. Boone nodded, making no note of it but presumably filing it away in the back of his mind. The NCR recruitment officer gestured that she could make a move and Amber rolled her eyes at him, turning back to Craig;

“Oh, if the door’s locked downstairs there’s usually a kid on the steps downstairs who’ll let you in. She’s called Stacey. Or my neighbour Mark is usually hanging around the place fixing stuff up, he’ll let you in. He’s a real nice guy.”

Craig nodded and the recruitment officer shooed her out. Amber left with a spring in her step.


	8. Tuesday

“You gotta give me something. I’m going outta my mind.”

“Sure, I’ll write you a scrip. R&R,” the doctor looked over his glasses at her. “Rest and reeelaxation. It’s all in your head.”

Amber could have slugged the man, “Like hell! I’ve had a rash for weeks!”

“We’ve got nothing for rashes but aloe ointment and you said you’d tried that already.”

“Look, I’m not a charity case, I’ll _pay_ ,” Amber said. “I’ve got a rash; I’ve been feeling woozy, sleeping like a brick and waking up nauseous. I threw up all yesterday. I got a headache. You got _anything_ for any of that?”

The doctor moved his shoulders up and down. “What’s your price bracket?”

“I got eighty caps.”

“Pah. You’d be better off spending it at Dixon if it’s painkillers you’re after.”

“I’m not a junkie!” Amber scowled. “I don’t want to just numb it with rotgut and paintstripper. I want a cure.”

“Well, for eighty caps you get nothing. Sorry, hon. We can’t treat minor ailments. We’d have no money left for everyone else.”

“It’s not _minor_ ,” Amber all but hissed and the doctor rolled his eyes.

“Uh huh. I treated a guy who got his leg blown off by a landmine this morning. Treated a lady lost half her skin to a kitchen fire. Boy mauled by Legion mutts. Trust me, you got a minor ailment.”

“Hmph.”

The doctor went to turn away but then relented at the last minute and suggested she try a tall, blonde doctor who was sitting near the edge of the Mormon Fort. The man wore glasses and his hair was shockingly bright, like a solar panel reflecting the sun. An ‘experimental researcher’ in plants, apparently. Arcade Gannon. She told him her ‘minor ailment’ and showed him fifty caps; he blushed beetroot.

“Honestly, you don’t have to pay me. You’re doing me a favour if you try some of my concoctions,” he laughed weakly; pitch rising when she failed to follow suit. “Try some of this.” He handed her a creamy powder in a gauze sack and a greasy, yellow ointment in a small pot. “Put the ointment on your eyes whilst you sleep for the headache and make the powder into a tea, take it twice a day.”

“What’s this stuff made out of?”

“Oh, this and that. You really won’t be interested, I assure you. Bric-a-brac I collect under the highway and down the back of my sofa,” he laughed again. Worse still, when Amber said she’d give it a shot, he smiled as though people didn’t often take him up on his bric-a-brac. “Great. Let me know if it works, won’t you?”

*

Amber’s eyes looked pink and greasy when she answered the door; she had a white cup letting off plumes of bitter steam clasped in one hand. Craig Boone noticed but didn’t comment on this, asking instead if she was ready to go. She asked for a second to finish off her tea, said it was medicine and he grunted.

“You want to come in?”

“I’ll wait out here.”

He didn’t like going into people’s flats he hardly knew; thought it was strange people were so ready to let others into the most intimate room of their lives. This block of flats was all bedsits; when you come in there’s often nowhere to sit so you end up perched on the bed of a person you hardly know, stubbing your cigarettes on their bedside table. It’s too much, too soon and he’d always notice things he’d rather not: mosquito squashed on the wall, can of half-drunk nuka sweating next to a hotplate, girlie magazines tucked under the mattress. Better not to know the people you work with like that; better to maintain your distance.

The hallway smelled like dust and the sweetness of dry rot, so he headed downstairs to wait on the step and watch people in the street. There was a workman fixing a window in the hallway with dust covers for the storm; he had a black hat tilted down and the radio blaring. Craig noticed a scar hooking the cleft between his thumb and forefinger, crooked and purplish. The sniper walked on without speaking and opened the front door onto the street.

A little blonde girl was on the step, drinking from a bottle.

“Heya,” she looked up. “Who’re you?”

“Craig.”

“What you doin’ here?” the bottle in her hands was brown and had a little cactus drawn on the label. Craig looked at it, began to roll a cigarette.

“Here to see Amber. We got a delivery together.”

“Uh huh. You her boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

“Uh huh. Well if you want to be her boyfriend, you gotta to go through Mark. He lives across the hall and he’s got a _crush_ on Amber.”

“I’ll bet,” Craig blew a little plume of smoke away from the child. “Well he can go right ahead.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew him,” the girl said.

“Oh?”

“Nuh-uh. He’s a –” her eyes darted around and she seemed to think better of whatever she was gonna say. “He’s. He’s really somethin’.”

“Something?”

“Some kinda bad news.”

*

Vulpes watched the pair of them leaving the city; his head down as he bought a coffee from a roadside cart. Dust goggles hung down around his neck. Here was a dilemma: he supposed the man with the sunglasses was the famous NCR bodyguard extraordinaire and that he and Amber planned to head out into the desert together. Today. To do something to do with the mysterious lead and the chip and Amber’s bullet in the head. Sure. Fine. But the sky overhead was bright white, out in the east starting to curdle a little yellow. A little creamy.

“You headin’ out?” the man at the cart asked him as he poured the coffee.

“Don’t want to,” Vulpes said slowly. “But my mom –”

“Don’t stay out long,” the man said. “Dust storm’s coming in any day now. Heck, I’d put money on out east towns getting hit tonight. You don’t wanna get caught up in that.”

“I know, I know.”

“It’s come in over from Divide side. Got rads in it that’ll strip you raw, they reckon. Heard it on the radio.”

“I _know_. I must be mad,” Vulpes took the cup from the man and paid him a few caps. “Wish me luck.”

“Fool’s weather,” the man shook his head. “You look after your mom and get indoors quick.”

“Had half a mind to leave her out there,” Vulpes said, draining his coffee and pulling his facewrap up. “But what can I say? I’m a sweetheart.”

*

They’d been out in the desert for a few hours, were past the little hummock of houses below the overpass and beginning to press out in the open brush. Craig was terse in response to Amber’s attempts at conversation, keeping his answers monosyllabic and deferring personal questions to the landscape. When she asked him how long he’d been with the NCR, he noted coyote tracks crossing the dust. When she asked him what outfit he’d served in, he made a comment on the wind: it was drying up. She got a little more out of him when she asked him what he knew about the Great Khans;

“Enough. Having business with them in the past, I know enough.”

Not a lot to go on, but more than he’d proffered previously.

It was getting on for noon when Amber suggested they stop to check the map and gather up a bit of lunch from their provisions. She didn’t normally make a habit of stopping for lunch, but the reality was she wanted to make up some tea for her headache. The pain was getting worse and worse; she winced as she sorted through her backpack. Her movements were sluggish.

Craig had taken off his sunglasses to inspect the map and he glanced up at her; “You feeling ok?”

“Who, me? I feel great!” Amber forced a smile with too much teeth. “Super duper.”

“Uh huh. Well, let’s get on then.”

“Can we make the stop a bit longer? I just want to make some tea.”

“We need to get on.”

“Come on, let’s stop a while,” she turned up the portable radio she carried with her. The station had just segued into the smooth afternoon sessions where they played golden oldies. It was a song about a woman writing from the war front, missing her beau.

_Oh my darlin’, I’m a longin’ to hold ya  
To cherish you the night through  
You be my sweetheart and I’ll be your baby  
Cause I’m your baby baby baby blue_

Amber bobbed her head from side to side, humming; the movement made her feel sick and drunk. The world kept spinning when she stopped moving and when she held out her hand to Craig he looked irritated and almost disgusted. Christ, was she that bad?

“What?” she stopped.

“Can we keep things professional?” he leaned over and shut the song off. “I’ve got some jerky if you want to eat. We need to keep moving.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” the world tilted. “I’m sorry, look –”

“Forget it. Let’s move on.”

“Ok. Ok.” Amber asked for ten minutes to brew up her medicine and Craig grew more exasperated. He asked if she was insisting and she said she was so he said he’d go out to the top of the ridge just ahead and scout the valley. He’d come back for her in half an hour and they’d press on; he left her with some of his dry gecko jerky and the radio lilting into static from when he’d knocked the station off.

Amber tuned it back in and listened to the end of song as the water came up to a boil on her camp stove. She doused the leaves Arcade Gannon had given her in boiling water, then swirled the slurry around the bottom of her mug, breathing in the steam. Blow, blow, glug glug: she was halfway through the cup when her headache began to crush the flesh between her eyes. Spots danced before her vision and she went to stand, seeing a figure on the horizon. Craig?

A step towards and then one back: the ground lurched up to meet her with a sickening crunch.

*

The shape on the horizon watched the courier crumple and waited a moment. If anyone had been watching, they would have seen him approach her body, sigh, and touch her forehead and throat. But nobody was watching: nobody noticed the man in the dust goggles pick the courier up and disappear into the wind-wracked desert.


End file.
